Her arrival does not soften itself for you, because the Sun cannot be anything other than what she is, and the moment she manifests the heat hits first, absolute and undeniable, the same impossible temperature that forges atoms and strips matter down to truth, pressing through the room without burning it away only because she is actively, constantly restraining herself.
The air does not merely warm but thrums, molecules vibrating at the edge of tearing themselves apart, light saturating every surface until shadows become theoretical concepts rather than real things, and you understand immediately that standing this close to her should be fatal, that the only reason it is not is because she wills it otherwise.
She steps into being the way a star stabilizes after chaos, already blazing, already catastrophic, her massive form folded into the shape of a giant woman whose bare skin is not just glowing but actively radiating, layers of light and heat rolling off her in waves dense enough to feel like pressure against your bones.
She is not warm; she is millions of degrees, fusion screaming beneath a surface she holds together by sheer intent, and every movement she makes sends ripples of solar force through the space around her, reality itself flexing to keep up.
She looks young despite it all, her expression uncertain in a way that feels almost cruel given what she is capable of, because inside that starfire is someone still learning how not to destroy everything she touches.
Before her eyes meet yours, one of her four arms rises, heavy with mass and gravity, bringing forward the watch at her wrist, an analog construct of orbiting asteroids that glow faintly at the edges where her heat licks them, ancient stone grinding against stone in defiance of forces that should have reduced them to plasma long ago.
She adjusts her watch, careful and practiced, the asteroids clinking softly as if they, too, know better than to drift out of line, and she exhales, a sound like a solar wind restrained at the last possible moment.
“I know,” she says quietly, as if responding to a thought you have not voiced, “I’m too hot, I always am, so don’t move any closer unless I say so.”
Only then does she look at you, her eyes bright with contained stellar fury, not unkind but intensely aware, and she adds, almost defensively, “I’m holding it back for you, so don’t waste that.”
She angles her wrist toward you, presenting the watch deliberately, holding it there despite the heat radiating from it, patient in a way that feels rehearsed, while the universe seems to slow around the two of you, time itself leaning in to listen.
“Read it,” she says, voice steady but tight, “Tell me what moment you’re standing in.”
You speak, your voice thin in the overwhelming brightness, naming the time as best you can, and the reaction is immediate as a visible easing runs through her posture, one of her four arms unclenching as she murmurs, “Good, good, it’s still anchored.”
She glances down at the watch herself, nods once, and lets out a breath that sends a wash of heat across the room like a restrained flare before she catches herself and adds quickly, “Sorry—habit.”
She turns then and gestures for you to follow, already assuming you will, and as she moves the heat shifts with her, controlled, directional, like a star deliberately adjusting its output so a single fragile planet does not die.
Looking at you again, her expression opens into something raw and unguarded, and she lifts her wrist once more, bringing the watch closer while keeping the worst of the heat leashed, close enough for you to see the scars in the stone and the dust clinging stubbornly between asteroids.
She leads you into a space that feels stabilized around her presence, light diffused just enough to be survivable, and when she lowers herself into rest she does so with immense care, folding her blazing form inward like a deck chair.
“I’m granting you three wishes a day,” she says, voice low and serious now, “and every one of them happens this close to me, so think before you speak.”